


Beyond the Dying Light

by GoodDayKate, moriamithril



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Betrayal, Eventual Romance, F/M, Reluctant friends to lovers, The Fellowship of the Ring - Freeform, The Istari - Freeform, double crossed love, the lord of the rings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodDayKate/pseuds/GoodDayKate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriamithril/pseuds/moriamithril
Summary: Viraden, descendant of Alatar the Blue of the Istari, has been kept secret for many years under the pretense of protection by Saruman the White. His bidding and her past unknown to her, she is sent to gather information pertaining to the rise of the Ring War. With instructions to find the one called Estel, Viraden disguises herself as a traveler to defend the boundaries of the Shire. Offering aid to the Ranger, their fates align and truths are unearthed as evil stirs.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

Of the Istari many tales came of Gandalf the Grey; Mithrandir, the _Olórin_ , and from Saruman the White; the Head of the White Council, the _Curunír_. Less spoken of but still whispers there are of Radagast the Brown, the servant of Yavanna of the Valier, tending to the _kelvar_ and _olvar_ , or the _flora_ and _fauna_ , as they are called in the Westron tongue. Yet there were five of the Istari, the Heren Istarion, sent from Aman, the island Tol Eressëa, known on Middle-earth as the Undying Lands, to protect the free people from the burgeoning wrath of Morgoth’s most faithful and wicked servant Sauron. The might of the Istari must never match that of Sauron, as was commanded by the Valar and Valier, for to raise up such power would only tear Middle-earth asunder. 

The remaining two of the Istarion are far lesser known, their fates entirely lost. Alatar and Pallando they were called and cloaked in robes of blue. Both embarked on the south and the east to illuminate men with their magic, to better equip them in their inevitable war against Sauron, and yet in many directions they were called to. 

Pallando, or _Rómestámo_ , as he was also named, remained in the east, his staff of the blue beech tree, _musclewood_ , guiding him in his task to learn the people there of sorcery. His friend of the Istari, the one who brought him to the realm of Middle-earth, strayed elsewhere. 

Alatar’s story begins in the Lonely Mountains, and with the dwarf he sought to beg heed his counsel. 

The Istari often took the form of elderly men, with beards of white and grey, and yet on his travels he found the bones and body of youth to aid him better in his dealings with the free people and the ascent of mountains. Clad in a deep blue of twilight, Alatar was of dark auburn hair with eyes that matched his cloak. His age he could alter but his staff he would not, and he wandered to Erebor with the carved branch of cedar, seeking Thrór, King Under the Mountain, the one that brought the Arkenstone back, for tremors of disquiet rippled throughout the realm, and it was the duty of Alatar to aid in those of the free people. 

‘You have forged a great friendship with the Northmen,’ Alatar told Thrór upon his first visit, sent on behalf of the familiar Mithrandir. ‘Your prosperity and wealth that dwell beneath your mountain has brought you precious trade with Dale. The orcs are kept at bay, for your reign among the Dwarves of Erebor has flourished and kept the enemy within the Iron Hills. And yet another of us, one of which speaks the language of beasts, warns of a great and terrible reckoning.’ It was Radagast who felt the stirring, who spoke of Smaug before his wings beat over the skies. 

‘A dragon, capable of terror, knows much of your wealth. His greed will drive him hither soon, and an ill fate hangs over that of your people and the men of Dale,’ Alatar continued, watching Thrór set his face harder into a look of unmoved stone as the wizard spoke. 

Unwilling to consider such unspeakable fates, Alatar was waved away, dismissed, and deemed envious of the success of the dwarves. Taking the form of the old, he departed from Erebor but returned often, for Saruman was too great and Gandalf too transient to remain in one land for too long. Radagast hardly dealt with men, and Pallando roamed deep in the east, so it was Alatar that aligned himself silently to those of the Grey Mountains.   
  


In time, he fled to Dale to find Radagast’s prophecy ringing true. Smaug, the winged and scaled beast, laid waste to the mountainside. Driving the dwarves from their home and killing many of the Northmen, he sank onto the riches of Erebor and remained there, only leaving to feed upon the maidens of Dale.

With a weathered face and silver beard, he again appeared in the town of Dale after that, many times for many years. It was nearly two hundred years after Smaug’s destruction came to them that he met the maiden named Sigrid, a fair and meek beauty behind a merchant’s booth dawning cakes and breads. She took pity on the old man, and offered him sustenance and shelter, home, and hearth. Moved by her open heart, Alatar revealed to her his youthful form, a man of curious and magnificent beauty, and she fell to love him. 

Often Alatar left the lands of Dale, his tidings carrying him to many corners, but Sigrid’s faith never wavered; his love and devotion to the mortal woman was true. For as many times as he took his leave, he returned to her. Most of his journeys pertained to a growing obsession; the knowledge of mortality and death, for a mortal’s fate is unknown even to the Istari. Determined to match her lifespan to his, unwilling to be parted from her, he sought magic to change her. 

On one such journey he felt a stabbing pain in his heart and knew Sigrid was in danger; Smaug had returned to Dale once more to feed. Sigrid was unscathed and bore news; upon her belly laid soft hands, and she gifted Alatar with the promise of a child. 

Alatar feared to leave her with the dragon so near, yet she refused to abandon her home. He swore to be present, to protect his family, but his madness to save his mortal love grew more desperate, pulling him away as he searched for answers. Smaug had slept for many months and hints of peace whispered through the land, and Sigrid birthed a daughter, and they called her Aenóm. 

Years passed in a hushed dormancy, and the dragon did not leave its fortress. Aenóm saw three summers as the people of Dale grew complacent, comfortable enough for Alatar to continue his quest. 

To the tower of Orthanc he sought Saruman the White. 

‘You have brought a child into Middle-earth; part-mortal,’ said Saruman, in a deep, resonating voice that reverberated within Alatar.

‘And she shall learn the ways of the Istari, in time,’ Alatar promised, and his eyes shone with a madness he could not conceal from the _Curunír._ ‘It is her mother. The Valar wrought the sea, the mountains - surely there is a way to prevent her fate - ‘

Saruman rose a single ivory hand before him, his greying beard streaked with black lay in contrast to his robes of white. Commanding silence, Alatar waited. 

‘The Valar will not honor this search,’ Saruman said, and anger ignited in Alatar, though he spoke not. ‘The mortals were given a gift.’

‘Their gift is their bane!’ Alatar retaliated, gnashing his teeth. He made the mistake of presenting himself to Saruman in his younger form and deeply regretted it; he felt powerless, like a scolded child. ‘It is we who were sent to protect the free people; what good are they against Sauron? There has been a flaw that must be altered - ‘

‘Your defiance reminds me of another child of Ilúvatar,’ Saruman said slowly, carefully, and he lifted his chin as his eyes darkened. 

Alatar’s face fell, the blood draining away and leaving a ghost in its wake. ‘You compare my love to that of Morgoth’s violence? His _tyranny_?’ he accused in a hiss. 

‘The beast that reigns terror within the Lonely Mountain has awoken once more,’ Saruman said after a calculated moment of silence. ‘Your time and skills are ill-spent in Isengard. The Valar will doubt you if you come to them with this matter,’ he warned. ‘It could cost _all_ of us our validity. I advise against it.’

Nostrils flared, Alatar turned round swiftly, his blue robes billowing behind him like an angry sea. He spoke not to Saruman again, but returned with haste to Dale, for Saruman’s words of Smaug hung over him like a plume of ruin clouding his thoughts. 

He arrived to find devastation; the dragon had indeed awoken, and the people of Dale paid tenfold for the time they spent in misled quietude. Sigrid’s home had been burned, his feet laid before ashen waste, and his love and daughter were not to be found. No one comforted Alatar, for he took the form of senescence upon his return and was left to weep without disturbance. The town mourned, paying the stranger no mind. 

Riddled with grief, he relied heavily on his staff of cedar as he departed from Dale for the last time. _The Tree of Life_ is what the mortals came to call the species for its nutrients, for its ability to forgo water-log and rot. It kept Alatar afloat on his feet as he wandered the lands, lost in a wave of darkness, until he at last came to find Mithrandir, of whom Alatar laid his misery at his feet. 

‘I felt when Aenóm took her first breath,’ Gandalf said solemnly, pain coursing through his veins as his kin crumpled before him. Troubled thoughts furrowed his long, greyed brows. ‘I did not, Alatar, feel it when she took her last.’

‘The child lives?’ he asked desperately, rising to his feet, and Gandalf nearly flinched at the uncertain hope he’d sown in his friend’s face. 

Gandalf shook his head, a shallow movement that expressed doubt. ‘That, my dear Alatar, I do not know.’

Alatar kept his desires close to his chest; he would not make the mistake with Mithrandir as he had with Saruman. What he sought he would have to find alone, lest he might once again suffer the likeness to the Evil One, the Dark Lord. 

He temporarily woke from his turmoil when he felt Gandalf place a palm on his shoulder. ‘Find strength, for we must savor it. The enemy’s arm grows longer,’ he continued, and Alatar felt as if his mind and heart were spilled open to Gandalf, as if his thoughts were being read like a scroll. ‘Wherever the child might be, she will find her way to the Halls of Mandos if she has passed from this realm. Not all is lost.’ 

A strange and eerie calm dawned over Alatar’s lined face, and it shook Gandalf. With a deep bow, Alatar departed from his friend, from the outskirts of the Lothlórien near the Gladden river and set out determined. Alatar would find the souls of Sigrid and Aenóm, if not still on Middle-earth, then beyond. Gandalf did not see Alatar the Blue again, not as the Grey Wizard. 

-

It had been over the span of many lives of men since Saruman had walked their paths of the Grey Mountains, and he set forth to Dale. Alatar had wandered quite far enough, if not weeks away on foot then leagues within his mind. O! how love can drive even the wisest mad. 

The child was far too easy to seek out; Aenóm dwelled within a hut of boughs and tree polls, a recently erected shelter on the shores of the lake. The spell he murmured sent the men of Dale into a deep sleep. He stole into the village of the northmen heavily disguised, spoke her name aloud, and the dark eyes of sapphire rose from slumber to meet his black ones. 

Saruman had not met the mortal lover, but he did not need to; this was Aenóm, daughter of Alatar. Dark brown hair shone red in the light slipping through the weak roof above, and her face bore every resemblance to that of the young form of the lost Istari. She would not remember him, nor the mortal that birthed her. The girl did not speak but hung her head low, following behind the robes of white. 

‘Is it you, father?’

Her voice was quiet; broken and frayed from disuse, the pronunciation rather advanced despite her age. Saruman stopped walking along the rocky paths that led back to Isengard and turned round slowly. 

Frightened by this sudden contact, the girl shrank back. ‘Sometimes he looked different,’ she explained weakly, already deciding she knew the truth. 

_A sharp wit_ , Saruman thought, reluctantly impressed. He almost smiled, thin lips not meeting his eyes, but they twinkled as they set upon her. 

_Choose your words wisely_ , he told himself. ‘I am not, child, no,’ he said, tone tinged with regret. The road ahead would likely be riddled with peril, but it wouldn’t be so for Saruman. Dangers would part the path for him. ‘But I knew him well, and he sent for me. Come,’ he said softly, and he offered the small child his hand. _So trusting_ , he mused as she accepted it with relief. It was almost a pity to betray such a rare gift. 

‘Your name is Viraden,’ he told her as day waned into dusk. He would provide a fire and provisions for the night. A bond would not be forged from neglect or abuse, no. He would care for her like a daughter of his own, and thus she would be named by him. Aenóm died in the belly of Smaug along with her mother. ‘Your father has left the realm of men.’

‘He is dead, then?’ she asked. _So unafraid_. 

Saruman did not immediately answer. ‘Your father was often away, was he not? He desires power,’ he said in a lower voice, not to inspire fear but to keep their words between them. ‘Many years he sought it, until it drove him to madness. A selfish task if you ask me.’

He felt the girl’s grip falter, and he tightened his own. 

‘Evil spreads throughout the world, Viraden,’ he continued. ‘The enemy encroaches, slowly but surely. Whom we set our trust within in this life may be the doom of all. It is a good thing I found you when I did.’

Isengard laid on the northwest tip of Rohan, and Saruman remained but a steward. Yet he possessed the key. _How many I’ve collected as of late_. The girl would learn her history without knowing deep traces of it flowed in her blood. She would learn the skill of blade and bow. She would read the libraries of the Orthanc tower, she would wish for nothing. Strong, disciplined, capable. He could not kill her, no; her death would ripple the waves of the sea, kissing the shores of Tol Eressëa. Yet he would not leave her for Mithrandir to discover himself, for he would surely seek her, for the Grey Wizard would have raised her as one of them. Saruman did not need another enemy standing in his way. No, she would remain within his watchful eye for as long as it took. Their journey back to Isengard was brief and they spoke sparsely. 

The child was meek. _A mortal trait_ , he cursed to himself, but he used it to his advantage. 

‘The enemy has many faces and disguises,’ he reminded her often, and he watched her, curious of the abilities that slept dormant in her mind. Her eyes sometimes flew to that of his staff and fell upon it with reverence. ‘The enemy may tempt you; it will take beautiful forms. You will think it loves you,’ he said, and smiled. For she loved him; it did not take long for it to bloom. 

He concealed her well, but not a decade later an unexpected visitor made his pulse quicken. 

‘Smaug has fallen,’ Gandalf the Grey told him proudly. ‘I regret to admit, my dear friend: I thought with his death I might feel some closure for Alatar, for his kin.’

‘An honorable desire,’ Saruman praised. _Fool. Sentimental fool. Though too keen for his own good._

‘I feel our mission would not have ended in our favour without the hobbit,’ Gandalf continued. They stood before one of the windows in Orthanc, a late summer breeze rippling through the sea of grasses below. ‘Stout-hearted, they’ve proven to be. I do not think this is the last we shall deal with the halflings.’ 

Saruman hummed, merely to acknowledge Mithrandir. Both pairs of knowing eyes scanned over the land, and Saruman felt his wander further north. _The enemy encroaches and their bounds expand_. 

‘His wrath grows,’ Mithrandir growled low, gripping his own staff. ‘The days we’ve known of peace are closing, Saruman.’

‘I know this,’ was all he said in return. 

He bid the Grey farewell, and sought the girl, hidden in rooms below. She could not remain in Isengard. 

A small tower of river stone enshrouded by magic he pitched in the forest of Fangorn. Its reach stretched far enough to offer her air and earth but kept her hidden from prying eyes. She was nearing her fourteenth autumn, and meekness no longer possessed her. 

‘But I shall be alone,’ she whispered, pacing the floors of the tower of Einsamall. The room held a great and simplistic beauty, and her possessions had been brought: books, clothing, weaponry. 

‘I will seek you, and often,’ Saruman soothed her. ‘To be alone is to be safe. Consider this a new test of mind.’

Her head, dark auburn hair plaited down her back, spun round to face her guardian. Her eyes narrowed slyly, and a cunning smile curved her lips. Small of frame she was, and yet the tall build of the Istari eluded her. Viraden was easily piqued by a hearty challenge. 

‘Easily passed,’ she replied. ‘It’s a lovely place.’ She turned on her feet and approached Saruman and took one of his hands in hers. She gazed at him with admiration. ‘How fortunate I have been,’ she said in a more hushed voice. ‘To have been found by you, when it could have been…’ she trailed off, shaking her head as if to rid her mind of the alternatives. ‘Thank you.’

He patted her grip. ‘A strong girl,’ he praised in an approving tone. ‘I must be off, for now. Remember, you are to remain here, no matter what. You understand?’

She nodded, mirroring his more severe demeanor. ‘I await your visits.’

And visit he did, many times between the moon reaching fullness. Time passed and Viraden's body curved like the sister of the sun, surpassing the orphan Saruman rescued from the Lonely Mountains into a woman. 

The lands of Fangorn she knew well, for within the walls of Einsamall she felt like the lone ruler of a kingdom of trees and vegetation, studying plant lore, swinging blades barefoot in the streams, hunting prey for sport with her bow. Her mind remained sharp with the whetstone of text, Saruman never failing to bring her something new to read. Time passed, and Viraden’s endurance for solitude barely faltered. 

Shadows grew longer in the meadows, and she began to feel change deep in her bones. She pressed her palms to the earth and felt it. 

The day Saruman brought with him a new test, she smiled. She had passed this one, and felt it was time to move on. She had been in Einsamall for seventy-seven years. 

He stood before her, his robes of white appeared dull in the twilight, bearing news that the safety of their once-impenetrable home was threatened. She was to flee, to execute her skills and stalk the lands that border a realm called the Shire. 

‘Remain unseen, speak not to anyone,’ Saruman commanded, eyes gleaming with pride as she threw her shoulders back, exhilarated. ‘Especially not to the one you must seek. Many years may pass, and many leagues may fall beneath your feet before you collect the knowledge from whom we seek.’

Her blue eyes blazed. ‘And who do we seek?’ 

Saruman smiled, and she looked upon him with love. ‘Estel,’ he boomed. ‘The one they call _Strider_.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My elvish is iffy, but bear with me. Enjoy!

Viraden’s mind contained depths of darkness; gaps and lapses of consciousness. 

The days before Isengard might not have ever been woven into the thread of time, had it not been for Saruman’s reminders. Her parents called upon him before their deaths, begging him to take her, for he was wise and able, and they were weak and corrupt. 

‘Their last good deed was their sacrifice to bring you to me,’ he told her. ‘For it was their loss, though they hardly realized their wasted wealth. If not for me, you would have succumbed to the will of the enemy in time. If only they had been stronger!

‘It is nothing less than fortune that it was I who first heard their call,’ he liked to say. And Viraden was comforted, because she believed he meant that he cared for her and would have been shattered to see her elsewhere. With the enemy. 

Her memories of Isengard are recalled like one might look back on a distant dream: her training and schooling thrived in her mind but the events that unfurled as she mastered them were faint. 

She studied the written works of Saruman himself, and she marveled at his script, often tracing a small fingertip over the curves and points on the scrolls. She read the myths and tales of Ilúvatar, of the Valar, of Melkor. 

‘Tales to bear in mind but nothing more,’ Saruman would reply when she would ask of their truths and fates. Melkor was touted as the one out of many who could think for himself, who questioned, who stood apart from the flawed beginning of ignorance and blindness. Saruman’s texts were contrived with balance, and Viraden thought of each character in the tale of the Ainulindalë with consideration. 

‘And of Melkor’s disturbance in the choir of Ilúvatar?’ Viraden would question, eyes wide and begging for Saruman’s counsel, for she worshiped his mind. 

‘Consider every motive, and do not forget each plays their role, all of equal importance,’ he would reply, a pleased light behind his black eyes, and Viraden would return his small smile. 

Saruman encouraged freedom of thought, the chance to draw conclusions of her own. Saruman’s stories did not go beyond Melkor’s voice rising from within the chorus, and instead he gave her histories of Middle-earth; the proud and cunning elves, the dwarves of secrecy and craft, the men of horses and war. 

Saruman trained her himself, starting Viraden with false blades carved from the light wood of teak trees harvested in the south. She practiced until blisters formed on her fingers and thumb and her arms ached. When the wood turned in her hands with ease, she requested something heavier, and Saruman would radiate pride, returning the next day with a toy weapon carved from the branch of hickory. 

It was not long before he wrought her one of iron and steel. 

Of the day Saruman came to her and told her they were no longer safe, she still recalled the swath of gratitude that she felt for him as he brought her to the newly erected tower of stone, deep in the forest. Her most vivid and sure memories began there, where she remained alone. 

Distance from her guardian did not inspire wavering love or resentment; instead, she grew to idolize him in his absence, savoring his visits and the words, texts, and gifts he bestowed on her upon returning to her. 

For many years she toiled in solitude, and often wondered what the touch of another might feel like, for Saruman’s love was spoken. Often, she wandered far enough and over the course of so many years came upon travelers, of men and elves alike, though they never caught sight of her. Beautiful they were and intriguing their voices fell upon her ears, but she only admired from afar, guilt and shame coursing through her. 

Viraden heard of the enemy but did not know what they looked like. ‘The enemy has many faces,’ she was warned. Nor did she know how to address them, ‘for it shall always take on a unique name.’ She instead found kinship in the land surrounding her, particularly the waters, for it carried to her secrets and voices from far away. From the rivers and creeks, she learned many tongues and sought comforts from its whispers, speaking tales without beginnings or ends, all vague and incomplete. 

‘What does the enemy wish for?’ she remembered asking Saruman upon one of his visits. 

‘To take power from those who are deserving of it,’ he told her. 

‘Are we deserving?’ she inquired in a small, hopeful voice. 

His smile was bitter, and his knuckles whitened as they gripped his staff. How she wished to wield it one day. ‘What is power to you, Viraden?’

She looked away from him, deep in thought, letting her eyes fix upon a bubbling stream not far from Einsamall. She pondered her answer long before answering, and Saruman did not needle her with impatience. 

‘To possess power is to simply understand,’ she whispered. And she wished for power then, for despite her training, her skill, and her abilities, she felt that an illumination was still shrouded beyond her reach, not shedding light where she had yet to see. Her guardian did not reply. 

When Saruman came to her on a spring day, bearing news that she must leave her tower of isolation, she felt as if a crack of that beacon began to shine through a cloak of darkness. _He must know I am ready_. 

Viraden’s dark brown hair shone like deep red rubies in the sun, the gems that laid embedded in the hilt of her sword. Saruman had not adorned her with jewelry, only weapons. She watched a strand of it that had fallen loose from her plait rush across her cheek, the spring wind dispersing autumn’s seeds as her guardian stood before her. 

‘Strider?’ she mirrored back in a hushed whisper, testing the name on her tongue. ‘And is he the enemy?’

One corner of Saruman’s mouth curved upright, like the end of a scimitar. ‘That, my dear Viraden, is yet to be known.’

Viraden did love his tests. It made her feel trusted, competent. She had yet to fail him. The evening sun had set entirely in the rolling hills behind him, filtered through the oaks in the distance that grew on the hem of the forest. Their leaves were but buds, the tender green creating a soft, lush cloud amongst the canopies. 

‘And how will I know this Strider once they have been found?’

‘He takes the form of a Ranger,’ Saruman said, his voice suddenly firm and commanding. ‘Hair of brown, eyes of blue. He speaks in many tongues and has many names. He is ageless, and handsome to behold. It may be many more springs and summers before he is discovered. Elusive he is.’

 _Like the enemy_. ‘And why him?’ 

‘He seeks what we covet, what is rightly ours. He seeks to possess an item of great power. We yet know his true intentions.’

‘What is it?’ she whispered. You ask too many questions of him, she chided herself silently. 

‘A ring,’ he said, and his voice was deep and cavernous, as were his eyes. ‘A single ring.’

-

And so Viraden left under the pall of darkness towards the land that is called Eriador. Clad in trousers tailored and made of the choicest wool of dark green, a tunic of linen dyed with the tannins of oak leaves, and a cloak of soot-grey, she ladened a rucksack with a tent, sleeping gear, and provisions. She was well-prepared and practiced at the art of outdoors survival, for over the decades spent alone many hours and days were spent in the forests. 

After sixteen summers and seventeen winters, Viraden grew to understand the hills of the Downs to the southwest, the Long Cleeve forest, the Hills of Scary, the East Road and the Old Forest; all names the rivers whispered to her. The Branduin became a familiar voice that spoke to her often.

The creatures of The Shire were small, half the size of the men she’d seen in her travels, and well-versed in farming their land, which they tended with great care. Viraden soon realized Saruman’s instructions - to remain unseen and unheard - could only be taken in a metaphorical sense; she was to keep her origins, her link to her guardian, her home buried in her heart for no others to see. For knowledge was power, and she would not grant it to the enemy. Every few moons she would permit herself entry to a small village on the other side of the Old Forest that they called Bree; coin she had been provided with by the generous and loving Saruman, and she spent it rarely, only stocking up on foodstuffs. 

Viraden often wondered if others could do what she could, or if the far-reaching protection of her guardian aided her in what seemed to be a skill. Viraden could slightly alter her appearance to others, she learned. Not drastically, but no one recognized her twice, no one questioned where she’d been or where she was going next. Often, they asked where she was from, and each time she shrugged simply, offering a new explanation, remembering the towns of men from her early lessons. 

‘And what are you doing here?’ they’d ask bluntly, hands on their hips as she’d take her wears and place them carefully in her bag. 

‘Passing through,’ was all she might say in return. 

Strange she felt, sitting in the pub, eating from beneath her hooded cloak, watching. Men clapping one another on the back, women leaning towards them, a faint hand on a shoulder. When had Saruman last rested a hand on hers? An embrace she could not remember, though often she had wished to, but her guardian was a stern teacher, and his approval rested in the glint in his eyes. _How giving these people were with their love_ , she thought. _What must it feel like, to be so trusting? In which ways did they earn this?_

Often elves wove through the borders of the land she stalked but they also wished to remain unseen, and she did cross paths with the Rangers she sought. ‘Be wary,’ Saruman had warned, ‘it may take considerable time to understand their methods, their missions, their habits.’ For as often as she saw them through the trees, across the rivers on horseback, they never seemed to hear or see Viraden. It was as if she was cloaked from their senses, and this she did not mind. The Rangers moved quickly and with stealth, and the name Strider not even the rivers had spoken. 

Certain beasts she felt in the earth below her, spoken of by others with great fear. ‘Orcs’ they were called, and from the far northeast they dwelt. Whispers grew round her, that they began to travel and grow in numbers. These creatures she had yet to see with her eyes, for they also evaded her. Viraden believed Saruman’s love stretched on for leagues, shielding her from the enemy. Her desire to prove herself to him propelled her towards finding Strider, to limit herself to merely watching. 

-

Viraden was approaching her seventeenth spring since departing from Einsamall, leaving behind her soft bed and powerful home base for the road. 

April was waning, waxing into May, and the days were warmer, the earth softening beneath her leather boots to mud. By night she’d been traveling through the open plains and patches of forest that ran parallel to the East Road, taking refuge in small caves by day to rest. As twilight was birthed, ushered in with a pale blue darkness enveloping the landscape, she squinted as she sorted through her provisions; she had only just been through Bree, and felt secure for the warmer months ahead. 

As she had left her post to set forth for the village, the Brandywine had spoken to her. A Ranger had left its muddy shores, heading towards the south. _I shall not go back towards home_ , she thought with a pang of grief in her chest. And yet the water continued its song. ‘ _There he will not remain. The path is straight ahead._ ’ She would not journey over the mountains without the proper amount of food, not while spring was so young. And though she trusted the river, for they had always spoken to her, she faltered to rush. It had been many years, and she had not yet discovered the one Saruman had set her upon.

Bree was days behind her, and the Misty Mountains laid within sight; avoiding the goblins would be a bother, but she knew the way. For many days Viraden could travel without rest if she paced herself, and silent she could be, if she wished. 

North, she had gone, passing through the Weather Hills towards the Ettenmoors, and at the hem of their foothills did she meet the Misty Mountains. She would avoid the High Pass; while it offered more safety, she would not risk being seen. For seven days and eight nights she crossed over rock and stone, blessed with clear skies and a strength in her heart she felt sent from the South, from home. _For he watches over me_. The sooner she found the Ranger, discovered his task, learned more of the ring, then she might hear word from her guardian once more, for she had never been parted from him for such a time. _How proud he will be_ , she thought, when he would learn of how the waters told her things, of how she scaled past rock giants and goblins undetected. 

On the ninth day since her ascent on the mountains, now laying at her back, out laid vast moors and open plains that sat poorly in her heart. She would need to travel by night, that she did not doubt. She wondered how she would pass the Anduin. 

‘I might pass where it forks,’ she muttered to herself, thinking. ‘Where the Langwell and Greylin meet.’ Nodding to herself in approval, she set her sights further north.

She found patches of woods before dawn, resting, and waiting for dusk. On her third evening since leaving the foothills, she heard a disturbance that pricked her skin. Nearby grew a beech tree of great girth; low, wide branches spiraling up into the canopy, and she darted towards it after slinging her pack on, scaling as high as she could.

From the thick and sturdy branches of the beech tree, she spotted the scene clearly: beings she had never laid eyes upon before, only heard stories of. Twenty of them at least gathered round a smoldering fire, and she watched as one of them stepped on it, snuffing it out as the others sharpened blades, stuffed their packs, and began to mount their steeds, though horses they were not. 

‘Wargs,’ Viraden mouthed, horror coursing through her, for though she felt confident she would not be seen nor heard by them, they revulsed her. 

She had stumbled upon a band of orcs, and the tales she heard rang true; they seemed to be readying to leave this place, traveling by night. _Just as I do_. The rivers uttered truth in their whispers. These beasts were real, just as the water had promised. Seventeen years she had eluded them. 

Viraden watched as they rounded up and took off east, likely towards the mountains. She waited until the darkness seeped in entirely on the great moors, and she heard or saw no lingering signs of the orcs and their wargs. 

Crossing the Anduin near its smaller streams proved to be simple, and she was grateful for the warm sun of early May; her wool would dry quickly, and its depths did not reach past her breastbone, for the early spring flooding had passed. The water accepted her graciously; she knew no harm would come to her as she toted her belongings over her head and let the chill course through her. 

Viraden had hoped the Anduin would offer secrets, as the Brandywine had. _I’ve come all this way_. Allowing herself to make fire in a patch of pine trees, she made shelter between two boulders, letting her clothing dry thoroughly and enjoying a proper meal; hunted rabbit and bread, and some cheese to warm her. The cursed forest of Mirkwood was near, and she pondered her next move. She hesitated to travel through those woods by night. When her things had dried, she organized her pack once more, and saw the afternoon sun filtered through a faint covering of cloud. She would rest now and determine her path forward upon awakening. 

When Viraden was startled from slumber, faintly aware that the end of her braid was dry, her tunic no longer clinging to her back, fear pierced through her. An awful sound, a desperate wailing penetrated the world around her; her blood ran cold beneath her skin, and she shot upright, grateful her fire was long burned over. 

‘We hates it! We _hates_ it!’ the shrill voice cried. It was a terrible sound, and Viraden tried to will her heart to slow its beating so that she might hear where it came from. ‘ _Gollum!_ ’

It was nearly a growl, as if the creature’s throat bled. Slipping her rucksack onto her back, Viraden moved slowly, keeping her breath as steady as she could. Hands splayed out in front of her against the mossy boulder, she carefully climbed it, peering out from within the pine stand. 

‘Night falls,’ a clearer and far more pleasant voice said, though a threat was present. ‘Every being in the forest will awaken with your cries. _Enough_!’ 

‘Stupid Ranger,’ the first terrible voice spat, and Viraden nearly went numb. She held her breath as she continued to listen, craning her neck. ‘Stupid, _stupid_ Ranger! You mean to kill us, you wish us dead! _WHERE IS MY PRECIOUS?_ ’

‘Quiet!’ the man hissed, almost pleading, for Viraden finally saw the figures ahead, and the taller was a man indeed. Finally, they came into a better view. 

On a rope tied to its neck he led...something, something she could not make out. Greying flesh with little hair, it nearly crawled, moving much like a bear as it used its hands. It would crumple to the earth every few paces and throw its head back to the heavens to wail. As they stopped once more, she saw him.

Even from such a distance, she could make out his features. The man did not appear to be aged, like some men in Bree, or Saruman. His eyes were light, and dark hair met his shoulders, and his face was liberally peppered with it; a fresh shave growing out, and sharp cheekbones laid beneath. 

_He’s beautiful_ , she thought, and immediately her heart sank into her chest. Though Saruman said she was to discover this Ranger’s motives, not certain of his loyalties, he very well might be an enemy. _‘He seeks what we covet_.’ If this was the man in question she knew not, but this was the closest Viraden had come yet. 

The tied creature collapsed once more and began not to wallow so much as weep, covering its face with its webbed hands. The Ranger sunk to its level, sitting back on his heels and said something low and quiet, and it was unintelligible to Viraden. Her legs were strong, yes, but they began to tremble in the crouched position she took on the boulder; her journey through the mountains still sank in her bones. 

Viraden flinched when the man rose, and the creature sprang up once more, and they silently trotted together towards the mouth of the Mirkwood forest. 

_‘The path lies straight ahead._ ’

Viraden would have to wait; the moors provided little coverage to slip behind, but nonetheless she would follow them, and follow them she did. 

Hours passed, and she picked up their trail with a deliberate ease, as if she could feel which way they went, and she slipped into Mirkwood. Though she had threaded the outskirts of it many times, she has never gone to its heart, for calling it such seemed true; it indeed was a living thing, more so than any forest. It prickled in wariness, it breathed around her, it possessed eyes, and more than one pair. The branches seemed to twist and turn towards her as she moved down the path, grateful the nearly full moon above barely penetrated through the thick canopy overhead. 

Dawn began to show itself, rising softly beyond her into a grey light. Hand resting on the hilt of her sword, she sometimes heard the sharp voice of the tied creature ricocheting from each corner of the wood, and her blood quickened with victory. What did they seek in these woods? 

Movement cascading around her at her back, and the distinct sound of bows being pulled taught rang out behind her, and hairs on her neck stood alert, pricking her skin. 

_Elves_ , she reminded herself, sagging in defeat. The man seeks the silvan elves. _And they have sought and discovered me_. 

‘ _Dar!_ Do not move.’

Hand still wrapped firmly around her blade, Viraden slowly turned on her heels and counted seven elves with drawn arrows, all pointed towards her. 

Surely when Saruman warned her of a beautiful enemy, it was the elves whom he spoke of. Their beauty was frightening, their fair features smoothed and pointed. She did not look upon them long, for they ordered her to march onward, not speaking a word in Westeron or their Silvan tongue. For some time, they carried on in silence until they approached a massive gate of wood, carved intricately. It opened from behind before she could even attempt at deciphering its design, and she jumped slightly when three of her escorts shouldered past her. 

‘ _Tolo, iell_ ,’ one of them of silver-white hair snapped, and she crossed the threshold into their realm. 

They walked, and Viraden craned her neck to see the towers of rope and wood joining the trees, well-crafted structures suspended above their heads. Though she admired their craftsmanship and the eerie beauty of the forest, terror coursed through Viraden. What would the elves decide of her fate? She remembered the terrible creature led by rope, and it kept her calm and sated. 

More doors parted for them, and they entered a dark hall with high ceilings, gentle light seeping in from thin windows. A dais laid before them, and her eyes immediately darted towards the Ranger standing to one side, his prisoner gone. He watched her carefully, and Viraden gazed upon the elf on the throne. 

Her armed escorts coalesced round the dais, two still at her band with their weapons drawn. They spoke quickly, and Viraden did not understand what was said before their leader’s head snapped towards her. 

With golden hair that fell down his chest, his narrowed eyes were weighted down by thick, dark brows, and an apparent flare of anger surged over him. With a pointed face, he looked down his nose at her, robes of a hushed blue nearly shimmering in the faint light. 

‘A trespasser?’ he said, and she was briefly reminded of her guardian, for his voice was proud and clear. ‘State your purpose.’

‘My aim was not to disturb your forest,’ she said clearly, throwing her shoulders back, for she wouldn’t allow fear to govern her. ‘I know the way round it. A vile creature was led here,’ she told the elf, and her neck swiveled to look at the Ranger, who frowned slightly. His eyes shone even in the darkness. 

‘How _noble_ of you,’ the elf replied, his tone dripping with disdain. ‘And you had hoped to warn us of this creature? To kill him? Or perhaps you meant to take him for yourself, to guide him back to his master?’

Deep-set confusion etched over Viraden, and she shook her head shallowly. ‘His master? Is his master not the Ranger who brought him to you?’ she shot back, gesturing with a nod towards the man. His exterior was not as cool as the elf’s, but silent he remained. 

‘Insolent,’ the elf accused in a bored droll. ‘And rather presumptuous. Take her,’ he commanded, and the sound of boots encroaching filled the hall before the man beside her spoke. 

‘You mean to imprison her, Thranduil?’ he asked the elf, and she noted the gleaming crown on the elf’s head. He was a king. ‘Simply because she thought ill of the wretched thing I brought as my burden?’

‘Where is it?’ Viraden asked, and both heads snapped towards her. 

The elf called Thranduil looked hard at her before turning back towards the Ranger. ‘She is quite preoccupied with his whereabouts,’ he said with a bite. ‘Are we mistaken to deem her untrustworthy?’

 _I would be untrustworthy?_ she thought in her mind. _The irony!_

‘My lady,’ the man spoke, and he took two steps closer to Viraden. She began to stumble back and stopped awkwardly, noting the armed elves at her back. Gentle the Ranger was, and her breath halted in her lungs. ‘That soul is disturbed, possessed; he shall remain here, for his safety _and_ our own. Has your business with it ceased? Pray tell us, do you wish to depart these lands?’

‘You are bold,’ Thranduil said in a low undertone. He glared disapprovingly and spun round before sitting once again on his throne. ‘Take her weapons,’ he commanded, and instantly three elves approached her person: one held her bow far too close to her temple, and the others took the blade given to her by Saruman from her waist, and the other unstrapped the dagger on her leg. Seething with unseen rage, Viraden managed the cool and still surface of a lake, letting the angry sea beneath her swirl into a tempest. 

Thranduil spoke in his own tongue again, too quickly and hushed for her to interpret, and the weapons were handed to the Ranger who accepted them reluctantly, sighing. 

‘You’ve brought one and shall depart with another,’ Thranduil said mockingly, and the Ranger’s expression soured slightly, though his brow relaxed. ‘You will speak for her, not arming her until you are beyond our lands. Be wise, Estel.’

Viraden’s heart turned to brumal stone, and it sunk to the depths of her belly. The one they call Estel, Strider. The Brandywine had spoken true, and now she stood defenseless at his mercy. Her mouth fell open in shock. 

Strider squared his jaw; and it flexed beneath the coarse hair lining it. A sternness came over him, but as if a crusted layer of earth, Viraden noticed that if she perhaps blew a breath over his cheeks it would erode and crumble away into a look of compassion. _He pities me_. A volatile wave of regard and fear crashed into her chest as she noted the kindness in his eyes. It soothed her, as if a cloak had been draped over her shoulders in the chill evening of spring. Oh, how her guardian would ache with disappointment if he could feel her gratitude. 

He spoke once more in the Sindarin elvish to the king, and Thranduil met her gaze before waving his hand. They had been dismissed, and the Ranger she sought nodded at her, mouth curving into a benign smile. 

‘I shall see you out, my lady,’ he whispered, and she nodded wordlessly. 


End file.
